No Big Words, Only My Dreams On Your Throne
Am on my knees again, God.
Again.
On the cold floor. On the bare floor. With no shoes, no pride.
I am calling up to you. Up. Up to where my hands cannot reach.
Seeking your mercy, as I have often done. As a child calls his father in the night.
I have no great words, Lord.
I have no big grammar.
I have no sweet English to impress heaven.
I have no psalms polished like gold.
I only have my dreams, and hard work, and my luck, which is from you.
Small dreams. Heavy dreams. Dreams that have refused to die.
And today, today I am leaving everything on your throne.
Not some. Everything.
My heart, take it.
My house, take it.
My children, cover them.
My enemies, you know them.
My fears, you saw them last night when I failed to sleep.
I leave them all on your throne. I have carried them too long; my back is breaking.
You have shown me my enemies, God. Oh, you have opened my eyes.
You lifted the cloth, and I saw the knife behind the smile.
You let me hear the whisper behind the hug.
But Lord, you have not yet shown me my friends.
Who is my friend?
Who will stand when the wind blows?
Who will stay when the table is empty?
I look around; I see many faces, but I don't see hearts.
I see many mouths saying, "Mzee, Mzee," but I don't see loyalty. They call you Muzei, Taata, Engineer to manipulate and twist your goodwill.
God, I work with people with a sword that is going to cut off my head.
Workmen I hired. Workmen I fed. Workmen I taught how to hold the hammer.
Now they are holding a sword for my neck.
We live in a world with no loyalty of the heart. No loyalty at all.
Mouths say, "Brother, Engineer, Muzei"; hearts say, "Let him fall."
Mouths say, "We are together"; hearts dig a pit at night.
Oh God! The Kifuuta gods.
Protect me.
Not from strangers; strangers I know how to avoid.
Protect me from the people I sit with at the same table.
From the hands that eat with me.
From the mouths that laugh with me.
From the people who know where I sleep, where my children play, where I hide my little money.
The ones who hug me in the morning and dig my grave in the evening.
The ones who say "Amen" loudest when I pray, but their amen is a knife.
I am not asking for money today, Lord.
I am not asking for land.
I am not asking for a big house or a new car.
I am asking for mercy.
I am asking for cover from the people I sat with at the same table yesterday. People change in a flash.
I am asking for that same hand, that hand that held me just the other day when I almost crossed over, when my breath was already in the coffin.
Let your hand be over my head tonight.
Let those who plot in darkness stumble into your light.
Let the sword they have raised for me cut their own shadow.
Let the pit they have dug for me become their own bedroom.
I am on my knees again, God.
I have nowhere else to go.
No office. No police. No brother. Only you and my gods.
I leave everything on your throne.
Do with me as you will.
But Lord, do not leave me alone at this table. Send the Kifuuta gods to move with me.
For if you leave me, I am finished.
If you stay, even my enemies will have to eat with me in peace.
The Kifuuta Oracle prays: In your mercy, I kneel. In your mercy, I rise.
